


The World Upon Your Shoulders

by siennna



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Castiel, Angst, Hurt Dean Winchester, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester, Vaugely AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennna/pseuds/siennna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But Dean's troubles don't end there; apparently having to deal with a soulless brother isn't enough. Nope. Fate or God or some other celestial jerk just had to throw an angsty, trench coat-wearing angel into the mix, too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Upon Your Shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to happily ignore the fact that in this timeline, Cas was lying to Sam and Dean and working with Crowley. In my happy, fluffy little universe, Cas is 100% not backstabbing the boys. Also, he was not the one to pull Sam from hell. His hands are utterly clean. 
> 
> WARNING (kinda): This is rated T because I'm paranoid and there's some swearing in here. Profanity doesn't faze me, but I know it bugs some people, so for all of those with a delicate sensibility, don't read, I guess? I don't know. At this point, I'm rambling. 
> 
> PS: This is my first official supernatural fic, so feedback would be greatly appreciated! <3 
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_"And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain_  
 _Don't carry the world upon your shoulders_  
 _For you know that it's a fool who plays it cool_  
 _By making his world a little colder"_

xxx

The parking lot of _Sunshine Inn_ is bleak and empty—save for a scattering of trash and a homeless man slumped against the building—and because the whole scene perfectly embodies Dean's current emotional state, he pulls in. Plus, he's so damn tired that a _dumpster_ would look accommodating at this point. If Sammy was in the passenger seat, he'd probably bitch about "inadequate housing" and its "questionable appearance", but Sam _isn't_ here—at Sam's insistence, Dean dropped him off at some seedy bar about an hour ago—and therefore there's nothing stopping Dean from crashing at this shady, rundown shithole.

Dean pulls into one of the many unoccupied parking spots and clicks off the radio, cutting Led Zeppelin's _Stairway to Heaven_ short. He hums the last few bars out of habit and steps from the car, absently tossing his keys from one hand to the other.

Apparently, the sound of the Impala's engine roused the sleeping homeless man, because as soon as Dean steps on the black top, the guy wakes with a start and wildly looks around, then with an air of urgency, tells Dean, "The apocalypse is nigh, dear friend! Kiss your loved ones and listen to good tunes. Won't be much longer now!"

The irony is, as ever, not lost on Dean; he gives the nut job a dull look and then sweeps past, muttering under his breath, "It came and went, buddy. Pick something else."

x

The receptionist inside is young and pretty, which, considering the establishment, is quite shocking, and Dean's double take nearly gives him whiplash. She's friendly, all smiles, with pale blonde hair and warm chocolaty eyes that seem to be in a permanent state of 'smolder', and her body language is practically screaming, 'there is a very, _very_ high chance that if you flirt a little we can hookup'—yet for some reason Dean cannot dredge up a single shred of interest.

That thought is honestly a bit terrifying, considering the fact that his mantra used to be "Pie, sex, and hunting. That's all I need." As of late, hunting has become more upsetting than satisfying—a development which can be attributed to his soulless brother—and for some reason pie doesn't provide the same sweet, sugary, golden-crusted comfort that it used to. And now he's brushing off the prospect of sex like a modest _celibate_ or something. It seems that _change_ —unlike Dean, apparently—is coming.

Still, despite his lack of interest, he can see a buffet of possibilities lining up before him; _especially_ when she squeezes her forearms tight against her sides in a not-so-subtle effort to accentuate her breasts. It would be so damn easy to just go for it; he can imagine leaning over the counter on his elbows, head tilted ever-so-slightly, all charming grin and sparkling eyes, and asking nonchalantly _so when's your shift over?_ And she would blush and duck her head in mock-embarrassment, and smile at the counter for a moment before lifting her eyes back up to his and innocently replying _why do you want to know?_ And he'd lean in a bit more, maybe brush his hand against the underside of her chin in a playful caress, and say something along the lines of _because it'd be a damn shame if I didn't get to know you better_ and she'd just lift a brow, coy as anything.

Then, a few minutes later, he'd probably end up screwing her against the wall of the elevator, her petite legs wrapped around his waist, his hands supporting the undersides of her thighs.

However, Dean currently finds the idea of whiskey and dreamless sleep much more enticing, so when she grins flirtatiously he offers no more than a brief, polite smile.

"How many nights? Mr…"

"Gonzales," he lies effortlessly, passing along the corresponding credit card. "Two twins, one night."

She tips her head to the side in curiosity and smiles sweetly, "Are you expecting someone?"

The word feels like a lie, but he says it anyway; "My brother."

The mere thought of Sammy—dammit, no, it's _Sam_ for now, because he is now nowhere near the kind-hearted person that the name 'Sammy' implies—sends a wave of dread, disgust, and sorrow straight to his gut.

"Alright. Here are your keys, Mr. Gonzales."

The hotel room is just as shitty and nondescript as any other place he and Sam have stayed in, so the peeling wallpaper, questionable blankets, and overall aura of gloom don't even make Dean blink. Without so much as giving the room a second glance, he tosses his duffel on the bed, kicks off his boots, shrugs out of his jacket—which despite being washed two days ago, already smells like blood and sweat—and collapses on the nearest piece of furniture. Thankfully, it happens to be a chair—though, at this point, he would have been just as content to fall on the table.

Dean sits there for a while (though perhaps calling it 'sitting' is giving him too much credit, since it is actually more like 'sagging' or 'drooping') and tortures himself with thoughts of his soulless brother and his absentee angel and how the entire shitty planet seems to constantly rest on his damn shoulders, and about the pain in his arm from when tonight's vamp bit him and the pain in his _heart_ from when Sam blankly asked ' _Am I supposed to care?_ ' after heartlessly killing his way through a crowd of recently turned children.

And, shit, _yes,_ you gotta do what you gotta do on a hunt, but _dammit_ would it have killed Sam to show some reluctance? Maybe act like slicing the head off a six-year-old girl wasn't the easiest thing on the planet? God—this is the worst kind of torture, because even though he's disgusted by this Sam, despises him down to his roots, Dean cannot bring himself to _hate_ Sam. Despite the empty look in Sam's eyes and last week's careless admission that he indeed does _not_ care about Dean—as more than a means to an end, anyway—he still _looks_ like Sammy. And because of that, Dean can't help but see dorky, awkward, ninth grade Sammy, with his huge turtle shell-shaped backpack stuffed tight with books, whose bright eyes glowed as he recounted his first day of high school to Dean. Or lanky, bookish, teenage Sammy, who practically teared up with gratitude when he realized that Dean baked his sixteenth birthday cake himself—from scratch, no less—since their dad was MIA as usual and the motel they were currently slumming in wasn't in the near vicinity of any bakeries.

Or—and this is his favorite—little seven year old Sammy, snuggled tight against Dean's shoulder as he told him an impromptu bedtime story. Dean didn't know any real bedtime stories (the ones mom told him had long-since faded from memory) so he made them up on the spot for Sammy, who was always hungry for another tale. In the flickering glow of the Motel Paradise's shabby lamplight, Dean spun stories of their mom—as much as he could remember, then when he couldn't, he'd make things up—and of happy families, dads taking their sons to normal things like baseball games and movies, instead of hunting trips and stakeouts. He talked about a nice house with a pale-peach paint job and a brick colored roof, the cherry-wood front door big and welcoming, with a nice white picket fence surrounding the whole domestic lair; maybe a few shrubs and potted plants on the porch, too. And the way Sammy looked at him—those big, stupid puppy-dog eyes and that trusting expression—always made him feel like a superhero. Sammy looked at him as if he were important; as if he _mattered._

And the thing is, since he has all of those memories under his belt, those smiles and moments and residual emotions, it's hard to completely ignore them, even in the face of logic. Because, yes, _logically_ Dean knows he shouldn't trust Sam, and in fact, shouldn't even be hunting with him. But the thought of ditching Sam and moving on alone is even more painful, so Dean has stayed and Dean will continue staying, until they somehow find a way to reverse this whole mess.

Unbelievably, Dean's troubles don't end there; apparently having to deal with a soulless brother isn't enough. Nope. Fate or God or some other celestial dickhead just _had_ to throw an angsty, trench coat-wearing angel into the mix, too.

The worry, confusion, anger, hurt, and complete and utter _befuddlement_ that accompany almost every thought of Castiel are driving Dean _up the fucking wall_. Considering how troubling he is, Cas deserves his own _file cabinet_ in Dean's mental office of worries.

It'd be really easy to just brush him aside and move on to bigger things if 'pissed as hell' and 'seriously hurt' were the only emotions Cas invoked. Hell, Dean would cut off all contact tomorrow if that was the case. However, that is _not_ the case. While Cas has the world's shittiest track record and has the tendency to just peace out whenever he feels like it—no matter how inconvenient or hurtful it is for Dean—he is also achingly genuine, well-intentioned, fiercely loyal, and ultimately a good dude. It's little things he does that redeem him, like two weeks ago when Dean was a fucking wreck after finding out about Sam's 'condition' from Veritas, and Cas just wordlessly popped into the empty passenger seat, quietly listening as Dean ranted and raved—and maybe shed a tear or two—over the disaster that was his life. Cas hadn't said much by way of consoling, but he did place a hand on Dean's arm and give him a significant look, which was somehow more comforting than anything that could've been said.

That's the last time he has seen Cas, but he knows that if he summons him the angel will probably show up. After all, his parting words had been ' _call me if you need me, Dean',_ and since that was the first time he'd ever bothered saying something like that, Dean is inclined to believe he was telling the truth.

The only question is: does Dean _want_ him to show up? Lately Cas has been a mystery wrapped in a puzzle wrapped in a trench coat. Some days he stands so close to Dean that he might as well be in his lap—a thought that doesn't trouble Dean the way it ought to—and other times, it seems as if he's a thousand miles away. Dean finds himself constantly suspended between disheartening dread and blinding euphoria whenever Cas is within proximity. On one hand, Cas is his best friend, he genuinely enjoys spending time with him, and for some stupid reason, the angel's stoic, blue eyes and faint smiles make something warm stir within Dean's chest-in a completely platonic way, of course. On the other hand, Cas is the most inconsistent thing in Dean's life at any given moment; he pretty much doesn't give a shit about just flying away with no warning or goodbye; and nine times out of ten, a horde of problems (or dickish angels) follow wherever he goes.

In short, Cas is the metaphorical wild card in Dean's deck of Uno, and Dean has no idea what to do about it.

Dean stares across the room at his half-opened duffel bag, at the shiny, dull-brown bottle tucked inside, and decides that he'd rather get hammered than face Cas—or his own shitty problems for that matter.

After ambling over to the bag and returning to his chair with the bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, he unscrews the lid and raises his drink in a toast. "To being miserable," he intones dully, and then takes a swig that burns its way straight down to his toes.

x

Unsurprisingly, Dean doesn't find his answer at the bottom of the whiskey bottle, but by the time he's drained a quarter of Jack, every trace of introspection has withered away with his sobriety.

Dean slumps down and presses his cheek to the cold, sticky surface of the room's shitty fold-out table and hums to himself, the sound vibrating pleasantly through his teeth. Despite the alcohol pumping through his system, something dark unfurls in his chest, insistently poking its way through the thick film of inebriation. The black thing stretches inside the yawning cavern of his chest, attaches itself to his ribs like branches, wraps his heart in chains that make it hard to beat, hard to breathe. He sees Sam's soulless eyes and empty expression, watches in agony as his brother contorts his face into whatever emotion he thinks is most appropriate or will glean the best results. Dean watches Sam slip through his fingers like grains of sand at the beach, the man he once knew replaced with some cold, unfeeling carbon-copy.

 _To be honest, I don't even care about you, really_ , he'd said.

So matter of fact, so uncaring.

Dean takes another swig, sloppy in his desperation to bury his thoughts, amber liquid spilling down his chin and soaking into the stiff plaid collar of his shirt.

The room feels abruptly too quiet—the silence oppressive and screaming with loneliness—so Dean begins to hum old music from Dad's cassettes, then some songs Sammy inexplicably enjoys—seriously, though, the Beatles? Really?—until he runs out of notes and verses and ultimately, distractions, and is forced once again to stare his shitty life right in the face.

_You're alone, Dean. Your brother is not here, not in a way that matters, your dad is burning in hell, your mom is long gone, Jo and Ellen are dead among countless others…_

The words come bubbling to the surface without his consent, but once he says them he can't stop. "Cas, Castiel, I want—need you here. Please. Cas, _Cas._ " It becomes a chant that he is no longer aware of speaking; the angel's name spills out with each intake and exhale of breath until the act becomes as natural as breathing itself. Tears spill freely from the corners of his eyes, tracing down the side of his nose, the curve of his cheeks, the round quivering flesh of his bottom lip. Tastes like salt, like how the ocean might taste. He doesn't know for sure, though. He's never been to the beach.

There is a muted sound of rustling feathers from somewhere behind him and—much like how a ghost makes a room drop several degrees—Cas's presence fills the ratty motel room with a warm glow. Like fucking magic, the tears stop falling and something warm and lovely unfurls in his chest. Dean smiles against the table then sits up, his arm bending at the elbow to support his head so he can look at Cas.

"Dean?" The angel sounds alarmed, blue eyes wide on his stoic face. "You prayed to me, are you okay?"

It's times like this (basically, whenever he's around Castiel) that Dean's stable sexual identity wavers and blurs like watercolor paints. Dean's pretty straight—in the past he's always liked chicks and breasts and lush curves—but the moment Cas hunches down to meet his gaze, Dean can't help but think he's beautiful. It's probably those eyes—wide, curious pools of blue—or maybe it's that little head-tilting thing he does when he's confused or concerned. It reminds Dean of a small child or a puppy: of innocence and other untarnished sweet things.

"Dean?"

"Have a drink with me, Cas," he holds out the bottle, his shaking hand jostling the liquid inside.

Cas just stares at him, then slowly, patiently says: "I do not drink, Dean."

"I know, but please? I don't like drinking alone. That shit's sad as hell." He chuckles at the end of the sentence, but it comes out sounding too strained and pathetic to pass off as humorous. While Cas stands there and decides whether he'd like to indulge him, Dean takes a swim in the angel's eyes, wades around in the vivid azure and navy-blue of his irises. Looking at Cas is like a fresh drink of water, a revitalizing splash of ice-cold wakefulness. Just being in the same proximity as Cas makes his veins thrum with life and his blood fill with something excited and bubbly, and it is _almost_ enough to quell the sad ache in his chest.

"Okay, Dean," he decides at last, and takes a seat across from him. The dirty table leaves miles of space between them, and the distance makes a nameless, sharp feeling claw at Dean's heart. Hastily, clumsily, Dean stands up and carries his chair to the other side, where he plops it down beside Cas. "Dean, what—"

"Too far away," he mumbles, leaning into Cas so that their arms are pressed together from shoulder to elbow. Instead of reaching for the bottle, he lazily gestures to it with his chin. "Drink," he instructs.

Cas looks dubious at first, but at Dean's expectant gaze, he obligingly grabs the bottle and raises it to his lips. From Dean's position, he can see Cas's Adams apple bobbing with every swallow. _Gulp gulp gulp_. After ten seconds pass and the angel shows no signs of slowing down, Dean leans forward to get a better look at his face, because what the _hell_ is he doing chugging an entire bottle of whiskey?

Dean watches in awe as the entire bottle is gradually drained, Cas's eyes resolutely fixed on the ceiling, determination stamped across his face. When he's done, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and carefully places the empty bottle upright on the floor. "Okay," he states, voice more raspy than usual from the whiskey, "there, I drank."

"Yeah, I can see that," he replies. "I actually only meant a swig, you know." Dean casts a mournful glance at the now booze-less bottle. Looks like this is as drunk as he'll be getting tonight, which is a shame because he's nowhere near as hammered as he'd like to be.

Cas blinks owlishly, then ducks his head in embarrassment. "I thought—my apologies, Dean. I can…I can leave and come back with a new one?"

The words 'hell yes' are on the tip of his tongue, but when he considers how that plan involves Cas leaving—even for a minute—a cold feeling unspools in his gut. Without thinking, Dean hunches down—because Cas is a little shorter— and rests his head firmly against the starchy material of the angel's shoulder.

Gruffly—perhaps too gruffly, considering the position he's in—Dean says, "No." Then, quieter, "Stay."

They sit in silence for a while; Cas, with his hands folded in his lap and his legs each bent at perfect ninety-degree angles; and Dean, with his body slumped against Cas's like a rag doll, his tired eyes fixed on nothing. He tries his best not to think about soulless Sam or the myriad of dead faces that constantly croon in the back of his head like broken records, or about the angel sitting next to him who might leave at any second for any period of time. Dean reaches his far arm—the one not touching Cas—across his body to grip Cas's coat, holding the tan material in his fist like an anchor.

"Dean," he sounds curious.

"Don't want you flying away on me, do I," Dean replies, answering the question Cas didn't ask. Eventually, as minutes pass, the stiffness in Cas's posture wanes, until his own head is carefully leaning back on Dean's. In the back of Dean's mind, he knows this is probably the girliest shit he's ever done—and that includes the time he wore fucking panties for Rhonda Hurley—but he can't find it in him to care. So what if he's resting his head on an angel's shoulder? So what if he's beginning to feel slightly inclined to take said angel's folded hands and cover them with his own? So what if he thinks said angel smells pretty damn good—like sharp, fresh air and clean skin—and so freaking _what_ if that kind of makes him want to bury his face into the angel's shoulder and hug like pansies for a few minutes?

_So what?_

This, Dean acknowledges, is one of the perks of being drunk. Were he sober, he would not be entertaining these thoughts with such casual acceptance; no, he'd probably smack himself in the side of the head in hopes of readjusting those loose screws—because, yeah, he was clearly nuts for thinking this kind of shit—and then rush off to a bar to lose himself in a pretty waitress and a whole lot of booze.

Right now though, he finds himself feeling delightfully at peace with his thoughts. Besides, they're his thoughts anyway, no one else knows what the hell is going on up here except for him. He can think of anything on the goddamn planet and not a single soul—save for a mind reader, maybe—would know.

_Cas is really, really warm. Like, if you bundled up a cozy fire and wrapped it in skin and a trench coat, this is what it would feel like. This is…good. Comfortable._

There, see? Complete confidentiality.

x

Twenty minutes later, Cas asks, "Where is Sam?". He doesn't say it to fill the silence—he's probably the last person who would recognize an awkward pause, let alone know how to fill one—he says it because he knows that Sam is at least partly why Dean's in such a shitty mood.

"Probably banging some girl at the bar." Dean scoffs bitterly. "The old Sam would probably be wringing his hands and losing sleep over our last case, but apparently _new Sam_ doesn't give two shits about killing children."

Cas raises his eyebrows, surprised. "He killed a child? Was it a monster?"

"Yeah, yeah it was a sucker. It just…I don't know, man, the real Sammy would have problems with that crap. He…he would still do it—the real Sam, I mean—or _I_ would do it if he couldn't, because you gotta do what you gotta do on a hunt, but I just wish he'd had some kind of, I don't know, hesitance? Maybe acted like it wasn't the easiest thing in the world to chop some little girl's head off? I mean, she wasn't even violent, Cas. She was freshly turned: disoriented, confused, afraid." Dean sighs heavily and drops his head into his hands, pressing his thumbs into his temples to ward away a headache. "She was freaking six years old, man, and Sam didn't even _blink_ as he sliced her goddamn head off."

Cas doesn't say anything—what _can_ he say that would assuage Dean? Instead he sort of nuzzles his tilted head against Dean's, in a weird but surprisingly comforting way.

In the quiet, Dean admits, "I just…I miss him, Cas. And I miss you. I know you're busy with your civil war and sheriff duties and all that, but I still miss your trench coat and stupid big eyes." _(Ah, yes, and here at exhibit A, you'll see that drunk Dean is considerably liberal with his thoughts.)_

After a beat, Cas muses, "I wasn't aware eyes were classified by intelligence."

"What? No I—they're not. I meant 'stupid' in a good way. I just meant you have, uh, really…good eyes, Cas," he finishes, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet. His cheeks grow warm as Cas continues to openly stare at him.

The angel cocks his head to the right, squints his eyes and nods slowly as if he understands, but Dean can tell he probably doesn't. "Well, yes, I suppose Jimmy's eyesight is fair, though he used to require reading glasses on occasion."

That's really not what Dean meant either, but he's nowhere near drunk enough to say that by 'good eyes' he meant 'beautiful, fan-fucking-tastic eyes', so he just nods. And then, because whiskey has always loosened his tongue a bit more than he'd like, he says, "Yeah, Cas. Actually that's another thing I missed," he gestures vaguely towards Cas's face, "those little head tilts."

"Head tilts?"

"Yeah—like that. See? Cute."

"Cute? I don't understand." Cas's eyebrows knit together in confusion, blue eyes sharp and curious. Without irony, he tilts his head again.

Dean sighs and smiles kind of crookedly, drops a hand on Cas's thigh and squeezes it, either out of fondness or reassurance, he isn't sure. "Yeah, I know, buddy. But see—that's what I like about you. You're just so, I don't know, innocent, I guess. Like a kid or something."

Cas frowns and stares at his shoes, which makes Dean immediately backtrack. "Hey, no, I just meant you're—pure. Untainted. Humans suck and angels generally blow, but you're different from both. You have a good heart, Cas, a really damn good heart. I mean, when I met you, you didn't understand why people lie or cheat and you didn't even know who _Led Zeppelin_ was…" he trails off into a silent chuckle, eyes glossed with nostalgia. "It's just really refreshing to be around you, man. I'm so used to people stabbing me in the back or lying, or being cruel or selfish, and it's nice to finally be with someone who's honest and open and who doesn't even understand why someone might call him cute. I like you, Cas, I'm just—really glad we're friends."

Cas nods solemnly and places his hand over Dean's, which Dean hadn't really noticed is still placed firmly on Cas's thigh. "Thank you, Dean. But I assure you, in this friendship it is I who is most fortunate."

The content silence that follows provides a decent opportunity to resume their former position, so without comment Dean drops his head back on Cas's shoulder, this time tilting his face so he can feel the faint warmth radiating from Cas's neck. That smell—that intoxicating, undeniably _Castielesque_ smell—rolls towards Dean in heady waves, and he can't help but sigh a little.

Right now, sitting next to Castiel with his head on his shoulder, he feels the safest he has in months. It's only the sore memory of Cas's many hasty departures that reminds Dean why he initially didn't want to see the angel.

He can feel the weight of his thoughts coming down on him once more, so he chases them away with a question.

"Do you ever wish you could go back and change something from the past?"

Gravely, Cas replies, "Yes, and I have done so. You have as well, remember the Colt mission?"

Dean can't help but smile at that response, because it is just like Cas to take things so literally. "It's supposed to be a deep question, Cas, it's basically like asking 'what is your biggest regret'. It's a conversation starter, I guess."

Cas frowns. "But then why not just ask that instead?"

Dean shrugs, feeling both pleased and awkward explaining such a seemingly obvious human tradition. "Well, asking that outright sounds a bit heavy, don't you think?"

"But if the intention behind the question is the same, then how is the phrasing of—"

"Okay, _fine._ Castiel, what is your biggest regret?"

Cas squints his eyes in thought. "I'd like to consider my answer for a moment."

He then leans forward with his elbows on his knees, his intertwined fingers propped beneath his chin, and he thinks about his answer for way longer than Dean expects. The fact that Dean can no longer rest his head anywhere sweet-smelling and safe is also unpleasant, but he can't find it in himself to be annoyed, because it's kind of nice that Cas is taking this so seriously. In the past, when Dean has asked this question or others like it—'if you were stranded on an island which three items would you blah blah blah'—the recipient usually spouted an answer after about thirty-seconds, and then the conversation moved on. He likes that Cas is considering his response carefully; Dean knows he sure as hell has considered his own often enough.

After a few minutes, Cas's deep voice finally breaks the silence. "In the year 1957 on October fourteenth, the Spanish city of Valencia was flooded. Hardly any souls were reaped—less than one hundred I believe—and comparatively it was a very small disaster. However, Nathaniel and I were sent down anyway to inspect the damage and fix what we could: mend the injured, save the dying, soothe the waters to prevent future catastrophe. I suppose you could call it "performing miracles". We walked through the city unseen, healing people as we went, but the damage was not significant and I could not understand why our Father had sent us. We finished our work and were nearly about to depart, when I noticed a little girl crouched beneath the broken remains of a building. She was in very poor condition: broken ribs, internal bleeding, cracked hipbone, sprained wrist, and she had a severe concussion as well, but I did my best to heal her.

"Healing children always feels different from healing adults; with the latter I simply pour my grace into them and remove it once it has healed their wounds, but with children sometimes a bit of their soul pours back into me. Only briefly of course, but it is a remarkable sensation, a good one I suppose, because children have such gentle, pure souls. It is almost like the soul is reaching out: extending an open hand, feeling around in curiosity. This little girl, her soul reached out to me too, but it gripped me in a way that did not feel like inquisitiveness or confusion, it felt like gratitude. It was an unfamiliar sensation, one I had never encountered in the whole of my existence. In the moments that her soul touched me, I saw that she would to grow into something magnificent. She possessed all the best human traits; love, loyalty, kindness, patience, intelligence, faith, and duty. She was very important, Dean. A shining beacon of a human.

"But I could not heal her. Her wounds were far too severe and I had exhausted myself by helping countless others; I wasn't strong enough. I…I had to watch her die there, crumbled underneath the pieces of building with her eyes wide open. She had green eyes. Like yours.

"As an angel, I was impervious to human emotions, yet somehow I felt regret. Deep, troubling regret that has still yet to leave me. That is what I would like to go back and change." After he has finished speaking, Cas stays in his leaning-forward position, hands folded tightly under his chin, elbows resting on his knees, and he stares off into the distance, a far-away look on his face.

"I'm sorry," says Dean, after a long time.

Cas just looks up at the ceiling with an unreadable expression.

"It wasn't your fault.," Dean adds quietly.

Cas turns to him suddenly. "I know. And _this_ isn't you fault, Dean. Sometimes these things just happen, without any—as you say—'rhyme or reason'"

"What are you talking about, Cas?" Because he could've sworn they were talking about _Cas,_ not him.

"Sam. Sam's condition is not your fault, neither was his affiliation with Ruby, nor was his addiction to demon blood and subsequent 'jumpstart' to the apocalypse. It wasn't your fault Dean, and I'm telling you this because I know you think otherwise."

A familiar burst of self-hatred screams through his veins. He closes his eyes and releases a shaking, controlled breath. "Yeah?" he asks quietly. "And how do you know?"

"Your soul gripped me Dean, that's how I know. I've seen the colors and words and galaxies of life splayed across your being and I can tell you, Dean, you are special. You are compelling and intricate; rife with both righteousness and strength."

A lump wells up in his throat and his heart constricts at Cas's words; he wishes he had something fiery and strong to gulp down, to numb the swell of emotion. "You don't mean that," Dean says around a sad-sounding laugh. "I'm just—me. Nothing special here."

The moment the words leave his lips, Cas is out of his chair, standing right in front of him, and his hands are framing the sides of Dean's face, forcing him to meet his bright cerulean gaze. "You listen to me, Dean Winchester," the angel growls, his thumbs pressing unapologetically into Dean's cheekbones, "you are not worthless, you are not a bad person, and you most certainly are not unimportant. You are special and I am endlessly grateful to be part of your life. Understood?"

Dean stares back at him with wide eyes, his mouth partially agape, and he can't find a single thing to say because;

1\. Cas gripping his face like that and talking all low and angry is as attractive as fucking hell

And, more importantly;

2\. Castiel, angel of the Lord, has just told him some of the most genuine, touching words he's ever heard in his entire life, and although some dark part of him wants to write it off as lies, it reaches him in the way nothing has before. A small shred of peace settles among the chaos of his mind, and for once he thinks maybe Cas is right.

There really isn't much to say in response, because no string of paltry words will be able to express how desperately grateful Dean is to Cas. It actually scares him how much he needs the angel: how deeply interwoven their lives have become. Cas is still holding his face in his hands, but now it feels more like a caress, as his thumbs rub gentle strokes against Dean's cheeks, brushing away the tears Dean wasn't aware he'd been shedding.

"You can't leave me, man," Dean croaks, "You have to understand, you can't keep disappearing whenever you want without a goodbye. It's killing me, Cas, it's really fucking killing me."

Cas's typically unreadable expression shatters and in its place, a look of heart-break, regret, and apology blooms. "I'm sorry, Dean," he rasps, grabbing Dean and pulling him to heart in a suffocating embrace. "I'm sorry. I would never leave you if I could, but you know I have duties, just as you do. I can't promise that I will never leave, but I can promise that I will always return. I am bound to you, Dean Winchester; I was not lying when I said that we share a profound bond."

Dean buries his face in Cas's hair and grabs fistfuls of the angel's trench coat to pull him closer.

"What do you want, Dean?" Cas asks, his voice muffled by the material of Dean's jacket. "Anything. Tell me."

"Cas, I—" the sound of his bloods pounds in his ears, thumps steadily to the beat of an unknown song. There's so much he wants, so many complicated, out-of-reach intangibilities, but right now he just wants Castiel. He wants the safety of his embrace, the warmth of his presence; the gentle reassurance of his words. But Dean figures he'll start with something simple, "I just…I want to hold your hand. That's what I want. Can I?"

Cas pulls back just enough to show his face; His expression is as soft and welcoming as the embrace itself. "Yes, Dean."

So he takes Cas's hand and intertwines their fingers like a knot, their warm palms pressed together from fingertip to wrist. Something light and feathery dances up his spine, twirls within his veins, skips though his chest cavity.

Cas examines their hands with interest, then lifts them up and presses the back of Dean's wrist to his mouth in a quick kiss. His lips linger briefly, his blue eyes focused unerringly on Dean's, and then he pulls away with an audible _pop_. "Is that okay?"

Dean swallows, his mouth suddenly dry as the Sahara Desert. He murmurs, "No. But this is," and leans in and cradles Cas's face between his palms, and gently presses his lips to Cas's: soft as a breeze, cautious as a first step.

"Cas, what am I going to do?" He whispers against Cas's mouth, just a hair's breadth between them. "About Sam, about this, about everything?"

Cas slides a palm to the back of Dean's head and runs his fingers through his hair, his eyes bright with affection and faith. "It doesn't matter Dean," he kisses the crease between Dean's eyebrows, "because I'll be here to weather it with you." He presses his lips along the trail of freckles that crawl across Dean's nose, and the dip above Dean's mouth, and the sharp angle of his jaw. "We will figure it out,because we always do. Right?"

"Yeah, Cas," Dean whispers, hope flooding through his chest in a deluge of warmth. "You're right."

And for the first time in a while, the road ahead isn't bleak, and Dean thinks maybe—just maybe—the future holds something worth sticking around for.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, lovelies! I'd love feedback, being that this is my first SPN fanfic! (and expect many more in the future, readers) 
> 
> Reviews are like lovely muffin baskets stuffed with gold, cookies, a Ferrari, and an official document from the CW and BBC, stating that Johnlock and Destiel are most certainly canon. That's how wonderful your comments are. 
> 
> Until next time, darlings! X0X0


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